


A Welcome Intruder

by CoffeeAndDreams



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: 007 Fest 2020, Angst, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Nightmares, Protective James Bond, Team Civilian, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:33:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25023226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndDreams/pseuds/CoffeeAndDreams
Summary: Q has to listen as one of his agents is tortured. He finally arrives home to find Bond waiting for him.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of 007 Fest 2020. I'm on Team Civilian. I think this will have one more section.

Q closed the door to his flat and rested his forehead against the cool, painted wood. His legs were shaking, and he considered just slumping down to the floor and crying himself to sleep right there in the hallway. Two things stopped him: first, he needed to refill the automatic cat feeder—it could only last for so many days and he hadn’t been home in ages. Q wasn’t sure when he would have the motivation to get out of bed again, so the pets needed to be tended to. The kitchen was on his left and, to his surprise, the feeder was full. What the hell…how was that possible? He was lost in his own head, when he tripped over the second thing: a neat pair of polished black loafers on the kitchen floor that he hadn’t noticed when he first came in. In his sleep-deprived and anxious mind, his first thought was that someone had broken in…but burglars generally didn’t remove their shoes or feed cats.

He expected Bond to check in on him at some point, but he was surprised that the agent had let himself into his flat. Hands shaking, Q took his glasses off and rubbed his aching, gritty eyes. He hoped Bond didn’t want to discuss what happened—that someone in the MI6 rumor mill filled him on the absolute nightmare of a mission that Q had run for 003. Bond himself had been in the field until arriving back in London that morning, but by that point, Q was already well on his way to his breaking point. At first, they couldn’t figure out why 003’s captors hadn’t removed his hear piece and cut his communication with Q Branch; it seemed like an amateur mistake for an otherwise professional organization. It was only when the torture started, that is was clear that they _wanted_ MI6 to hear it—every punishing blow and twisted cruelty they inflicted on 003’s mind and body. It was merciless and expertly executed, keeping 003 conscious for most of it so that his grunts and cries of pain were clearly heard through the comms. After seven hours, M had come down and demanded Q allow someone else to take a shift. He stared at his boss, briefly muted his mic, and informed the man that if he was ordered to abandon his agent, M could find a new Quartermaster. The older man yielded against his better judgement. It was another ten hours before 003’s body finally gave out.

Q shook his head to clear the memory. He felt ill—unsteady and nauseous. His head was pounding, and his eyes were strained from so many hours of screen time. He was surprised that Bond wasn’t in the living room, and Q looked in his bedroom and sighed. James Bond was laying on his bed, sound asleep. One cat was curled up in the crook of his left arm. The other was asleep on his chest, Bond’s hand resting across the its back. Both cats were purring, Bond’s socked feet were crossed at the ankle, and they all looked quite content. Q felt tears sting his eyes and he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. A second later, Bond’s sharp blue eyes were on him. Q always wondered how he could look alert so suddenly. Neither man said anything, but Bond inclined his head towards the vacant side of the bed. Q toed his shoes off, leaving them in the middle of the floor. He took the spare blanket off the foot of the bed, wrapped it around his shoulders, and crawled onto the bed, collapsing with a shaky sob. James tucked Q’s head into the curve of his neck and the hand that had been stroking the cat shifted to Q’s hair. The young man’s body was wracked with the kind of violent sobbing that was primal, desperate in its origin. 

Q couldn’t speak—he could hardly breathe, his chest aching with each crashing wave of despair. Bond nudged the cats away and turned on his side, scooping one arm under Q’s shoulders, wrapping himself around the howling man. Q was in a loose fetal position, and Bond surrounded him with as much of his own body as he could—like he could somehow enclose him and create a bubble of safety and comfort in the bed. Q coughed violently, his breath catching in his throat.

“Easy…easy,” Bond said quietly, afraid the younger man would pass out if he didn’t calm down a little. “Breathe through it…try again…there you go.” They were the first words he’d spoken since he opened his eyes to find Q swaying in the doorway. Even from his spot on the bed, he could see the younger man’s skin was grey and waxy, his eyes bloodshot, as fragile as Bond had ever seen him. The lanky body in his arms trembled fiercely and a heartbreaking moan filled the room as uncontrollable grief poured from Q.

His plane had barely touched down when Moneypenny was calling and letting him know what was unfolding at Six. Bond swore loudly when he learned that Q was in the center of the nightmare. Listening to someone endure torture was nearly as bad as undergoing it yourself. She filled him in on Q’s insubordination towards M, his refusal to so much as take a break while 003 was still alive. Except for an occasional cup of tea, he turned down every offer of food or help from subordinates and supervisors alike. Bond asked if he should come in, but Moneypenny suggested an alternative: wait for Q at his flat and not to leave his side. And that was how James ended up kipping on Q’s bed after feeding the cats who expressed their thanks by curling up with him…which was slightly more enjoyable than he’d have expected.

“C’mere,” Bond said quietly, tugging at Q. He repositioned their bodies so that Q was against him chest-to-chest, and James spread his broad hands over as much of Q’s back as he could. Then, he draped one leg over Q’s, blanketing his body in warmth and weight. Bond rocked him against his chest slowly, wishing there was something, _anything_ , he could do to take some of this burden from him. Bond had been tortured in the past; he’d heard people tortured in the past, and it always seemed like the latter was the toughest to shoulder. It was certainly when he’d felt most tempted to reveal information. He was trained in transcending the physical pain of interrogation but listening to the screams of someone else…well, that was a different situation altogether.

Q seemed to be crying himself out, exhaustion finally getting the upper hand. Stuttering, gasping yawns gradually began to outpace his tears. Bond reached over and pulled the comforter up and around Q’s shivering body before tightening his hold again. He snuck a hand in between their bodies, searching until he found one of Q’s cold and clammy hands. Bond squeezed it tightly.

“Sleep, Q. I’ll be here when you wake up,” he said.

For the first time since he came stumbling through the door, Q raised his head and looked James in the eye. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, paused, then shook his head and burrowed deeper into the blanket.

“Just sleep,” Bond reassured him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad dreams, difficult conversations, and scrambled eggs.

It was an uneasy sleep—Q’s body involuntarily shivering and twitching with restlessness, little murmurs of discontent as his subconscious worked to process all he’d witnessed.

After an hour, Bond got out of the bed, but pulled a chair over so he could still be close. He was absolutely simmering with rage, angry at everyone from the people who captured and killed 003, to M for not forcing Q to step down, to Q himself for staying on the line. He typed multiple strongly worded texts for M, only to delete them seconds later. The truth was, there was nothing M could have done to make Q stand down, and Q needed to be in 003’s ear no matter how much it would hurt him. Leaving 003 in the hands of someone else was a non-negotiable for Q: his agent, his call…and 003 needed the calm, kind voice of the Quartermaster. It was the voice all the agents really needed when things got truly, desperately bad—when the agent threatened to fade into the human being. That low, steady reassurance from Q always came in the form that particular agent needed, whether it was a joke, a sharp reminder, or a quiet apology for what they had to do…sometimes a whispered, “I’m here. You’re not alone in this.” Other handlers could hack computers, unlock doors, and reroute air travel, but nobody cared for them the way the Quartermaster did.

And this was at the heart of Bond’s rage: the fact that it was inescapable. He ran a hand over his stubbled face with a heavy sigh. It was bound to happen, and something similar would happen to Q in the future—it was the nature of the work. It didn’t mean Bond liked it. At all.

A whimper from the pile of blankets caught his attention and pulled him from his brooding. He reached over and put his hand on something he thought was likely a shoulder, trying to resettle the sleeping man. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect and Q snapped up violently with a scream, swinging blindly to get the unfamiliar hand off of him.

“No!” he shouted, still half asleep.

“It’s me, Q,” Bond said.

“Get away!” he screamed.

If he reflexes weren’t so good, Q probably would have caught Bond in the side of the head, but the older man grabbed his wrists to keep Q from hurting him or himself. Q reacted by twisting his body away and trying to jerk his arms free. _Christ, he was strong_ , Bond thought. But he was wild and exhausted, so Bond was able to manage to cross Q’s arms across his body and pin them between their two torsos. Bond circled his arms around him and squeezed hard, but Q was still shrieking in his ear.

“Let me go!”

“Calm down first,” Bond ordered. Q almost managed to wriggle free and Bond’s voice was sharp as he tightened his grip. “Q, stop this right now! You’re safe.” A few more seconds of struggling. “Stop fighting! It’s me Q—it’s Bond.” Q’s body remained spring-loaded, but he stopped thrashing. James softened his voice. “Calm down. I just didn’t want you to hurt yourself.” By increments, Q’s muscles began to slacken and, once he was reasonably certain it wouldn’t earn him a black eye, Bond released his hold. He put a hand on the back of Q’s head and the other on his forehead and tried to help ground him. “Eyes on me, Q.” Terrified green eyes flitted over Bond’s face before resuming their wild dance around the room. “C’mon. It’ll help, I promise.” Although it seemed to take a lot of effort, Q managed to fix his eyes on the intense blue ones starting back at him. “There. Good,” Bond praised quietly. He shifted his hands so he could hold Q’s face between his rough, warm palms. He leaned in until he was about eight inches from Q’s face; there was nowhere for Q to look except in Bond’s eyes. James kept his breathing audible—deliberately deep and slow. He could see reality coming back to the younger man degree by degree. “You back?” Bond finally asked. Q nodded and Bond gave his check a fond pat before dropping his hands and getting off the bed to give him some space.

“Sorry,” Q rasped. Bond waited until he was done rubbing his eyes before answering.

“Don’t apologize—not for any of it, Q.”

Q seemed to be considering it but, finally, nodded slightly.

“Alright…thank you then?”

“Still not necessary, but if it makes you feel better,” Bond said. Q pulled his knees up and rested his head on crossed arms. It seemed like an invitation, so Bond sat back down on the edge of the bed.

“I could hear it—hear him,” Q admitted with a shudder.

“It’ll get better,” Bond said.

“It won’t go away though, will it?” Q asked, raising his eyes.

“No. Not completely.” He wouldn’t lie about it—Q deserved the truth.

“M’s going to make me go to psych, isn’t he?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Bond huffed a laugh. “See if you can get in with Somerset. She’s not a complete idiot.”

“Are you actually recommending a psychologist?” There was the slightest glimmer in Q’s eyes.

“I’m recommending the least objectionable option.”

“I see.” A tired smile tugged at Q’s lips.

Bond stared at his hands; there were things he wanted to tell Q, but he never very good at talking about these sorts of things. He felt like a coward when all he said was,

“Tea? You should eat and drink something.”

“Not sure what there is.”

“I can always order something,” Bond said. Q chewed on his lower lip.

“Nothing too heavy if it’s okay. I’m still feeling…I’m not very hungry.”

“Go take a shower and I’ll pull something together.”

“A shower sounds good, actually,” Q said. He hesitated at the door to the en suite. “You don’t have to stay, you know. I’ll be fine.”

“Of course you’ll be fine,” Bond said. “But I’m staying.” Not that it would have made a difference, but Bond was pleased when he saw relief on Q’s face. “Shower,” Bond prompted.

The hot water helped him shake off the lingering haze from his horrible nightmare. His muscles ached and he probably was a little dehydrated since he’d been subsisting on just enough tea to keep him awake while he worked with 003. Thinking of the agent made him shudder and got out of the shower and wrapped himself in a thick towel. He wiped some steam off the mirror and looked at his own reflection. He looked like he’d aged five years in the last twenty hours. Maybe he’d feel better if he ate and drank something. If not, at least he could go back to bed. There was still the question of his secret agent/babysitter, but it was sort of nice to have someone there to look after him and make the decisions because his neurons were absolutely fried. Plus, Bond understood, probably better than anyone, what Q was going through; he didn’t minimize or offer annoying platitudes. He was honest and patient…surprisingly so. It was comforting to have his presence in the flat, and Q was quietly please that Bond hadn’t taken him up on his offer to leave.

He shuffled into the kitchen in well worn pajamas and damp hair to find Bond putting plates on the kitchen table. He’d made scramble eggs and toast. Next to Q’s place there was a tall glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol with an empty teacup waiting to be filled when the kettle boiled. When Bond sat down, he put an enormous scoop of eggs on his plate and a more modest serving on Q’s with the plate of toast in between them.

“Thank you,” Q said. James hummed an acknowledgement and dug into his food. They ate quietly, Q forcing himself to get down a slice of toast and a few bites of eggs. They were actually pretty good, but his stomach still had a vaguely uneasy feeling that Q knew would be with him for a few days. He took a sip of water and then downed the rest of it in several huge gulps as he realized how thirsty he was. James put his fork down and got up to refill Q’s empty glass. When he sat back down, he looked at Q and didn’t return to his food. He leaned back in his chair.

“Q?”

“Hm?”

“I’m not good at the…” he waved a hand at the empty space between the two of them.

“You make good eggs though,” Q said. Bond huffed a laugh and ran a hand over his cropped hair.

“There are things they won’t tell you—won’t prepare you for,” Bond said. “Not because they want to hide it from you, but you don’t know if you’ve never been through it.” He paused and stared at a spot on the table, seeming to think about what he wanted to say next. “There’s the immediate stuff: nightmares, insomnia, anxiety. That’s what they’ll talk to you about. But that will go away and then you’ll be fine. And then, one day, for no reason at all you won’t be fine.” His eyes flicked up to Q’s and he continued. “It might be six months, might be six years, but you won’t see it coming…and it will be…” He sighed and shook his head. “You’re going to need someone to help you when it happens.”

Q was silent. _You don’t know if you’ve never been through it._ Those blue eyes held so much experience and so much pain. Q wondered who was Bond’s “someone” when it happened to him, even though, in his heart, he knew the answer was that he had no one. It’s why he was warning Q—so he didn’t fall into the same trap. He stalled by taking a sip of his tea and letting the information sink in.

“Can I call you?” Q asked quietly.

“Always,” came the immediate reply. Q knew that would be the easy part—Bond loved to play the hero and he'd have no hesitation about jumping back in to help Q. But this next question? Much more of a gamble.

“Next time, will you call me?” Q asked.

Bond’s lips quirked; he’d walked right into that one. Q wasn’t as out of his senses at he’d thought. He had well-developed coping mechanisms. Not healthy ones, but familiar. _Brave new world_ , he thought to himself.

“Yes. I’ll call.”


End file.
